Little Earthquakes
by Malone1
Summary: The purpose behind the Hallows is revealed, giving Severus Snape a chance to live again; this time, on his own terms.
1. Chapter 1

Don't own Harry potter.

All text in bold is actual text from Deathly Hallows

Beta needed, email me at:

"**You cannot help."**

**He spun around. Albus Dumbledore was walking toward him, sprightly and upright, wearing sweeping robes of midnight blue.**

"**Harry." He spread his arms wide, and his hands were both whole and white and undamaged.**

"I'm…I…I'm dead. We're dead," Harry said heavily, his shoulders sagging with the gravity of the situation. "I thought I'd have dodged that particular bullet. Did it once," he said wryly. **  
"True, true," said Dumbledore, and he was like a child seeking reassurance. "Yet I too sought a way to conquer death, Harry."**

"The Hallows," said Harry seriously.

"**Hallows," murmured Dumbledore, "Not Horcruxes. Precisely."**

"Tom Riddle and myself, unfortunately, shared one foolish dream: to master death. A foolish dream, perhaps, an old man's dream, but an obsession nonetheless. While Tom explored the darkness of Horcruxes, I was studying the Hallows, as you know. While most of the legends had barely a sliver of truth to them, there was one possibility—the chance to right a wrong, the opportunity to bring back a life."

Harry had a fleeting vision of his mother, of Sirius, of all the people he could think of worthy of that gift.

With a knowing smile, Dumbledore looked over his glasses, the intensity behind his blue eyes almost piercing Harry.

"Can you not think of one man who is, perhaps, more deserving of life than any other? A man who you know now, to have given up his life entirely?"

Harry was silent.

"The greater good comes with its prices, Harry. Unfortunately, it exacted its heaviest toll on Severus Snape."

A burst of righteous anger flared in Harry.

"You did nothing to prevent it! Or ease it in any way! The way you treated him…" Harry spat, angrily raking his hand through his hair.

Dumbledore nodded in agreement, holding up his hand to halt Harry.

"I do not deny that I exacted more cruelty on Severus than he deserved."

"He didn't deserve any, you knew that."

"Precisely! Harry, what I am about to tell you is of the utmost importance. The Hallows do indeed have the power to reverse death. But only once."

Dumbledore began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back.

"In all the years I spent chasing the Hallows, it became clear that all the superstitions and legends about them had an underlying truth: each item was a piece of the puzzle—a piece of the human condition. The Elder wand represented the courage to fight death, the Resurrection Stone the stubbornness when faced with Death, and the Cloak the cleverness to outwit Death. It became my firm belief that the brothers had indeed created these items without knowing their potential: only when the items were united, when the raw essence of each brother's interpretations of death were combined, could they fulfill their purpose," Dumbledore explained.

"But sir, would he even want to come back?"

Dumbledore smiled sadly, his hand making a sweeping gesture to a figure Harry had not even noticed, it was sitting so still on one of the benches.

"That, Harry, is the ultimate question."

Severus Snape sat, staring straight ahead, looking more like a mannequin than the hurricane of sarcasm and black robes that was Severus Snape .

"Sir?" Harry ventured tentatively, approaching him.

His eyes snapped to Harry, and for a moment, Harry saw his old Potions Master, before his face softened into an expression Harry had never seen. It was as if the little boy that loved his mother was there, and the black eyes that were once cold black tunnels were more welcoming, somehow warmer.

"Mister Potter," Snape said evenly, with a terse nod.

"Severus, are you willing to return?" Dumbledore asked quietly.

Snape seemed to consider the two of them, standing side by side, and Harry could only imagine what he was thinking, his face betrayed nothing.

"I…am not certain, Albus."

"No, you are not. Otherwise you would not be here," Dumbledore said simply.

Snape turned his gaze to Harry, and they silently regarded each other.

"Mr. Potter, upon my return, unlike you, I will not likely remember this conversation, or anything that has transpired here at all. I…apologize for what I am certain will be very unpleasant behavior from myself," Snape said curtly, and Harry's heart gave a lurch of pity for the man who had given his life for his mother.

"Your days of apologies are over," Harry said firmly.

Something like hope flitted across Snape's features.

"When you are ready…I will be as well," Snape said finally, returning to stillness.

Harry turned to Dumbledore.

"**Tell me one last thing," said Harry. "Is this real? Or has this been my head?"**

**Dumbledore beamed at him, and his voice sounded loud and strong in Harry's ears even though the bright mist was descending again, obscuring his figure.**

"**Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"**


	2. Chapter 2

"**I'd want some peace and quiet, if it were me," she said.**

"**I'd love some," he replied.**

"**I'll distract them all," she said. "Use your Cloak."**

**Everywhere he looked he saw families reunited, and finally, he saw the two whose company he craved most.**

"**It's me," he muttered, crouching down between them. "Will you come with me?"**

**They stood up at once, and together he, Ron, and Hermione left the Great Hall. **

They were silent as they left the glow of Hogwarts, descending solemnly down the wet stone steps to the grounds, and beyond.

The Forbidden Forest was dark and eerily quiet—all the buzzing, hooting, and other night noises had crept back into the safety of all the dark places the forest offered; the owners of the noises watching the progress of the three friends from dark holes and tree branches.

"I left it here," said Harry, his glasses slipping down his grimy nose as he scrounged the forest floor.

Harry suddenly felt sick to his stomach for the first time that night, despite all that had happened.

_What if I can't find the Stone_? He thought with a sinking feeling, _What if I let Snape down?_

Harry had never had warm feelings toward the wizard. On the contrary, Harry had loathed Snape with an intensity rivaled only by Voldemort and Umbridge. He recalled briefly the incident in his fifth year, in which he had been unable to choose which unsavory character he had wanted to triumph over the other: Umbridge or Snape.

But tonight, had changed everything.

Harry replayed Snape's memories in his mind.

"_No. There's no difference."_

"_Lily, I'm sorry!"_

"_Kill me too, then. I want to die."_

"_He must never know."_

"_My word, that I shall never reveal the best of you?" _

"…_one man more deserving of life…"_

Harry felt the steady rise of panic in his gut. He owed Snape this much. Somehow, this felt more important than defeating Voldemort. He didn't know why, but the gravity of this task was more daunting than anything he had ever faced, even the Dark Lord himself.

"Harry, _you are a wizard_!" Hermione whispered impatiently, jolting Harry back to reality.

"Oh. Right," Harry replied dumbly, screwing his eyes shut, envisioning the stone.

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, tapping her foot.

His heart felt like it was plummeting to his knees.

_Oh God we have to find the Stone._

_Shut up!_

_Come on, concentrate. See the Stone. Feel it in your hand. Remember how it felt._

"Accio Resurrection Stone!"

There was a dull _thwack! _ against his shin.

"Ow!" He exclaimed, bending over, hissing as he rubbed the sore flesh.

The Stone was at his feet.

"Serves you right," Hermione said, not unkindly, "for taking so much time to summon something. You just killed Voldemort for Merlin's sake!"

A grin spread over Harry's face as he picked up the Stone, turning it over in his hands, reassuring himself that he had actually found it.

"C'mon," Ron said, glancing fearfully around, "don't want to run into the, you know….spiders."

Something rustled in the darkness, and Ron squeaked.

For the first time in a long time, Harry and Hermione laughed, and the three friends began the trek to the Shrieking Shack, hand in hand.

The Whomping Willow was a ghostly silhouette against the night sky, the cold stars glittering cheerfully without a care in the world.

The same stars that saw Grindenwald fall, the same that saw Voldemort fall, and the same that would see another fall.

_Probably old news to them_, Harry mused, and they stopped before the tree, marveling at its size and power for the first time.

"S'not that big, really," Ron said conversationally, "at least not when it's still. Looks a bit bigger when it's trying to kill you."

Harry scoured the ground, looking for a stick or rock. But before he could lift his wand, Hermione butted in.

"Let me do it, Harry," she said bossily, and Harry saw the Hermione he knew from first year.

"_It's LeviOsa not LevioSA!"_

She flicked her wand at a large stick and levitated it over to the secret knot.

"Almost there, 'Mione…just a little further…" murmured Ron enthusiastically.

Hermione bit her lip, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

They heard the great lurching and grinding of the tree's insides as the branch made contact with the knot, and the gently swaying tree stilled.

Ron stuck a toe out, as if he was testing water before jumping in. When there was no response from the Willow, Ron, Harry, and Hermione strode bravely across the lawn, down the passage and toward Snape.

Blood was everywhere, seeping steadily out from the cooling body of Severus Snape.

"Blimey," Ron breathed, his clammy hand squeezing Hermione's gently.

Harry handed Ron the Wand and Hermione the Cloak.

"Did Dumbledore tell you what you were supposed to do?" Hermione asked.

"'Course not," Harry replied, rolling the stone over in his hands.

"Well," Hermione began awkwardly, "Magical Items don't necessarily have minds of their own, but I'll bet these," she motioned to the items they each held, "know what to do."

Harry knelt beside Snape's body, the denim of his jeans making sick squelching noises as they ground the cool, clotting blood into the floor.

"Hermione, can you—" Harry said, pointing at Snape's head.

While Harry busied himself closing the wound on Snape's neck, Hermione held his head in her lap, gently turning it to give Harry better access to the wound.

"But he's dead, innit? Won't the Hallows heal him too?" Ron asked.

"Can't take that chance, Ron. I haven't got the foggiest what they'll do," Harry sighed.

They regarded his body silently, and to anyone ignorant of what they were about to do, they looked like three friends offering up a prayer for the dead man before them.

With a deep breath, Hermione laid the cloak gingerly on his chest.

"The wit to outsmart," she said solemnly.

Ron followed suite, tucking the Wand into the folds of the Cloak, "The courage to fight."

Harry tucked the Stone in between the Wand and the Cloak.

"The will to live," he finished,

For a moment, there was nothing, and Harry was sure they had failed. He hung his head in defeat.

"There's got to be another—"

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, pointing to the Hallows.

The wand had fused itself to the stone. The cloak was folding itself around the pair, spinning on top of Snape's chest. The spinning picked up speed.

Faster.

Faster.

They were a blur now.

Harry briefly thought that this was like some kind of twisted magical blender.

The spinning slowed, and the Hallows were gone.

In their place was a glob of silvery essence, the only thing Harry had ever seen that was even remotely comparable was the stuff patronuses were made of.

It floated serenely in place for a moment, hovering over Snape's body.

Then, at lightning speed, it dove up Snape's nostrils, some of it worming its way into his mouth, into his ears. It was far from the magical experience Harry had been expecting.

It was grotesque.

Hermione watched in horror, unable to move as the Hallows disappeared into Snape's head like glowing leeches.

Snape's eyes flew open, and Hermione shrieked. They were silver with the film of death that had begun to settle over them, and his mouth opened unnaturally wide, a dry, rattling moan escaping his throat.

The Trio saw his chest rise, and Harry balanced on the balls of his feet, watching intently, willing Snape to live.

"Come on," he pleaded.

Snape's large nostrils flared and the film of death retreated from his eyes like smoke.

Harry picked up Snape's wrist, and pressed two fingers to the pulse point.

_Thud._

_Thud._

_Thud._

He felt the weak, but sure and steady pressure against the flesh.

Severus Snape was back from the dead.


	3. Teaser

A/N **Chapter three will arrive soon. In the meantime, a little teaser. . .**

He grinned, coming to sit down, slipping his arm around her and pulling her against his chest.

She sighed contentedly, nuzzling his broad chest.

_Which wasn't like Snape's._

She found herself wishing it was.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: Still looking for a Beta. PM me**

**Enjoy!**

There was heat burning his eyelids. Everything was too bright. He wanted to tear his eyes out if it meant the sensations would stop. He heard muffled noises, as if he was underwater. He tried to open his eyes, but the effort was too great—like trying to wake up during a dream. For the brief moment he was able to keep them open, he saw a blurry shadow.

"Stay with us, Professor," whispered the shadow.

It sounded like heaven.

He was dimly aware of being safe.

If only that were a comfort.

In all his years as a servant of the Dark Lord, he had been exposed to some of the most painful curses and potions known to the Wizarding world. He was no stranger to pain.

But _this_!

This was excruciating. Every limb throbbed and itched. He couldn't open his eyes, but he wasn't sure he would even want to. Even closed, his eyes burned, and Snape was sure they were going to burn right out of his sockets. Everything was red, orange and yellow. Every sensation was a neon burst of horror.

If he could have spoken, he would have surely begged for death. He swam in and out of consciousness, with no concept of time or space, only of pain.

The only relief came from something cool and soft at his temples, smoothing over his face. He could hear the noises the thing made, like a pigeon or a dove. Surely not that stereotypical. He couldn't even think clearly, or remember what blasted animal made that blasted gentle cooing noise, his agony was so distracting.

He began to live for that feeling, that coolness that would repel all the suffering for a few blessed seconds.

As the days passed, he could sense the presence when it entered the room, when it left, when it was close to him. As the fog of death retreated from his mind, he gradually came to the realization that this cooing presence was a person.

He just hoped it wasn't Trelawney.

Hermione had never seen her Potions Master in such a pathetic state. It was disarming to see him whimper with pain and sweat with fever. Ron and Harry were at a loss, when they were in the room they shifted uncomfortably, shying away from caring for the austere man.

Thus, all the care fell to Hermione.

Of course.

It was hard to be angry with Harry, he was rarely home, he was charged with the task of putting the wizarding world back together: he and Mr. Weasley were swamped with Ministry hearings, emergency elections, and meetings.

Ron, however, was a different story.

He was perfectly capable of helping Hermione instead of sitting in the study playing Wizard's chess or perusing the _Prophet_.

She didn't mind caring for Snape, on the contrary, she found it quite natural, he looked so feeble, her nurturing instincts kicked into high gear and she might has well have been Mrs. Weasley.

For days he lay in the rickety old bed, his already greasy hair soaked with sweat from the fever laying waste to his body. Every day, Hermione dutifully wiped a cool cloth across his face, casting a cleansing charm on his hair that never seemed to do much good.

It was only a matter of days before he began to reek, and Hermione begrudgingly admitted he needed a bath. She herself had only bathed once since that night—quickly, too, just enough to rinse off the blood. She picked up the pristine copy of _Medical Magic_ she had Harry pick up from Flourish & Blotts, flipping through the chapters until she reached the chapter titled "Hygiene". Bending over the pages, Hermione began to read:

"_Cleansing charms are recommended for serious wounds in order to minimize contact with foreign bodies, but everyday cleansing should be carried out manually. Too much charm work can create a stagnant atmosphere around the patient—even the simplest bathing, such as hair, require movement of the head, neck and shoulders and thusly encourage blood flow, flexibility and muscle mobility. In comatose patients, manual cleansing is especially helpful in coaxing consciousness from the body."_

"Well," Hermione sighed, "thank Merlin you're unconscious, Gryffindor would never know the end of negative house points."

There was a knock at the door.

Ron stood there with a steaming bowl of soup and a hunk of bread.

"Hey," she said, a broad smile breaking out over her face. It was harder to be angry with him when he looked at her like that.

He shot her a sexy little grin, setting the tray on the little table, "Thought we'd have lunch, you must be starved."

Her stomach gave a loud growl as she caught a whiff of the soup.

"French onion?" She asked, peering over the bowl.

"Kreacher's specialty," Ron said wryly, dipping a chunk of bread into the soup, before stuffing the whole thing in his mouth.

A surge of affection shot through Hermione, and she gazed adoringly at him.

"W'ossat smell?" Ron asked, his nose wrinkled.

"Him," Hermione said gloomily, tearing apart her bread.

"Can' you jus' cas' a charm?" Ron asked through a mouthful.

"No," Hermione sighed, "I mean I have been, but the book says it's only so affective, and I need to do it by hand."

Ron dropped his spoon with a _clang!_, the huge lump of food traveling audibly down his throat, his eyes wide with horror.

"So you've got to…" he trailed off, his lips curling with disgust as he looked at Snape.

"Yes," she groaned, her face in her hands.

"Not really hungry anymore," Ron said, pushing his bowl away.

Hermione grunted in agreement.

"Kreacher?" She called out, digging her palms into her eyes.

There was a loud _pop!_

"Miss summoned Kreacher?" He croaked.

"Yes, Kreacher, I need your help," Hermione said, a little too brightly, smiling at the ancient, twisted elf, "I need a bucket of water, some soap and a washcloth."

"Kreacher will return," the elf said, bowing low before disappearing.

"Sorry, 'Mione, I dunno if I can stay for this…" Ron said, standing up.

"Fine," she snapped, annoyed at his willingness to dump work on her.

"Hey, it's not that, it's just…you're good at this stuff, and I'm really not."

"Shut it, Ronald."

He backed out of the room, his red face sheepish and ashamed as he closed the door.

Hermione glared at the door, her hands on her hips.

Kreacher returned with a pop, a steaming hot washcloth draped over his wrinkled, tiny arm, a bucket of hot water sloshing on the floor, the soap and shampoo hovering in front of her.

"Thanks, Kreacher," she said, offering a smile.

"Kreacher is glad to be of service," he said, bowing before disappearing once more.

He had warmed considerably, but was still a little frosty towards her.

Sighing, she turned to Snape.

"In for a knut, in for a galleon," she murmured, pulling back the sheets.

She sat on the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath before curling her fingers around the bottom of his shirt and pulling up. She kept her eyes on his face, watching for any sign of movement. Part of her was terrified he would wake up suddenly and throw her in detention. She maneuvered, not without difficulty, the shirt off, clumsily pulling it over his head. He looked ridiculous, with the fabric bunched up under his chin, pulling under his arms. Getting the rest of the shirt off was easy work, and when Hermione finally let her gaze wander from his face, she was met with something she did not expect to see. It was only natural she would be curious, she assured herself, she was, after all, eighteen. He was frightfully pale, that much was to be expected. A different pale than Ron. Where Ron was a reddish, blotchy ivory, Snape was ashen, almost grey; perhaps it was the sparse sprinkling of black hairs, some of which were already turning silver. She didn't notice her mouth was open as she took in his form. He was leaner than Ron or Harry, both of whom were of average height and build. Snape's was a runner's body, and while she hadn't expected a ludicrous set of abdominals or overly developed muscles of any kind, she hadn't expected to find him… well, _attractive._ Blushing, she made quick work of his underarms, which sorely needed the attention of soap and water. She let her nails trail lightly over his chest, shivering at the implication of such a forbidden act.

_What would he do if he woke up to you ogling him, Hermione?_

She flushed an even deeper shade of crimson when she pulled his pants off; shrieking when she found out he was neither a boxers man nor a briefs man. She spun away from him, clapping her hand over her mouth in mortification, her eyes screwed shut.

_She had just seen Severus Snape naked!_

She tried to block the image from her mind: the thick, flacid organ nestled in wiry black-

"Hermione? Are you alright?" Came Ron's muffled voice from the other side of the door.

"I'm fine!" She replied, a little too quickly.

She heard him linger for a moment before retreating, only when she heard the floor creak downstairs did she let out the breath she had been holding.

She cupped her hand over the side of her face, blocking her peripheral vision as she grabbed her wand from the nightstand.

_Don't look don't look don't look_

With eyes closed, she cast a cleansing charm, and then yanked the sheets back over the offending body parts.

Once the shock wore off, Hermione allowed herself a little smile.

"Right. Now for hair," she murmured, positioning him just so.

His hair was baby fine, and while greasy and dirty, it still felt good to her fingers. She took more time than she should have massaging the shampoo into his scalp, before using her wand like a hose to rinse it out.

With Kreacher's help, she managed to change the sheets and preserve her potions master's modesty.

Exhausted, she collapsed into the tattered couch downstairs in the library.

Orange hair poked through the door.

"All right, then?"

Hermione offered him a tired smile.

"All right."

He grinned, coming to sit down, slipping his arm around her and pulling her against his chest.

She sighed contentedly, nuzzling into his broad chest.

_His isn't like Snape's._

She found herself wishing it were.

The weeks dragged by, and every third day Hermione bathed Snape, and every third day she got bolder. She had managed to get pajama pants on him, and Hermione suspected that she would revert to a blushing schoolgirl if she were faced with his lower anatomy again. She found herself looking forward to the chance to admire him, always the urge came after she had been snogging with Ron. She began massaging his temples after washing his hair; always assuring herself it was purely professional. She came to admire not just his physique, but the crease between his eyebrows, the sensual curve of his lips, and most of all, his regal aquiline nose. She was catching herself more and more with casual slips of the imagination—such as wondering how he liked his tea, if he ate breakfast, whether or not had a lie in on weekends.

One dreary Tuesday afternoon, Harry trudged tiredly up to the guest bedroom, collapsing in a skinny heap on the tattered armchair in the corner.

"How did it go?" Hermione asked.

"Well, Sirius and Snape are cleared. I reckon they'll want to ask him some questions when, or if he ever wakes up," Harry said guiltily.

Hermione scooted next to him, touching his shoulder gently.

"He'll wake up, Harry," she said soothingly, "he's getting better every day. His fever went away weeks ago."

His chest heaved with a great sigh as he pulled his wire glasses off, angry red dents on the bridge of his nose.

"He better."

Hermione followed Harry's worried gaze to the comatose man, whose brow was furrowed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath his eyelids. His knuckles were white, fisting the sheets with such a grip, Hermione wondered briefly if the wrinkles would ever come out.

Harry heaved himself out of the chair, and for the first time, he looked older than he was. Wearier somehow.

"Go ahead and take a shower," Hermione said gently, shooing him out of the room.

There was a groan from the bed.

Hermione's head whipped around to see a very welcome sight: Severus Snape's eyes.

As soon as he opened his eyes, he regretted it instantly.

Not Granger.

Anyone but Granger.

She looked pathetic, a hideously ugly maroon sweater hanging off her bony shoulders, a large "R" stitched on the front. Her muggle jeans were ill fitting, looking more like men's slacks than anything meant for the female form. Her once bushy hair was lank and lifeless, a few pitiful curls trying to break through. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, her face disturbingly gaunt.

_Merlin,_ _she's ugly._

In an instant she was at his side, fussing over him like a skeletal hen. He was aware she was speaking, but he was thankful he couldn't hear her quite yet. Sounds were still muffled.

Then he felt it.

_Those hands!_

Granger had been the source of relief! Snape cursed his luck.

Suddenly, all of his trivial thoughts faded.

Nagini.

The bite.

He raised his hand to his neck, feeling nothing but smooth flesh.

_Impossible! I was dead, I was finished!_

He recalled how he felt as his life flowed out of him onto the dusty floor of the Shrieking Shack, as he had pressed the vial into Potter's hands, peace drifting over him as all else faded but Lily's eyes, and those too left gently—death had come peacefully, opening the door softly and tucking him into nothingness.

And here this chit was, flustered and concerned, her ridiculous tongue flapping just as much as it had when she was his pupil.  
Rage began to seep into him like water into a sponge.

He should be dead.

He _wanted_ to be dead.

_Who has done this to me?_

She stood there gaping like a fish for a moment, before darting to the bed.

"Professor? Can you hear me? Does anything hurt?" She asked a barrage of questions, her hands fluttering everywhere at once; checking his pulse, his forehead, his neck.

He only glared at her.

Hermione's heart plummeted in disappointment.

_Well, what did you expect? A kiss?_

"Professor?" She ventured again, staring at him.

He was silent for a moment, loathing etched in every line of his face.

"What did you _do_?" He hissed, his voice hoarse, his hands fisting her jumper, yanking her towards him.

Hermione's stomach jolted briefly at this closeness, and regardless of the fact he loathed her, there was still something erotic about it.

Hermione yanked her jumper from his grip.

"The Hallows," she said tiredly, pinching the bridge of her nose.

She did not want to have this conversation. She was tired, of everything from Ron, to the Daily Prophet owling her, even to taking care of Snape.

She stared at him with hollow, dejected eyes.

"What did you do?" He shouted, spittle flying from his mouth, veins popping out of his forehead and neck.

"Hermione, what—"

Harry had bolted upstairs when he heard the shouting, and he had stopped dead in the doorway. Her shoulders slumped with relief.

Snape's head whipped around to face the Boy Who Lived, and Hermione had never seen her former potions master so angry.

"Harry, he's awake," she explained, backing away from the bed and over to the door. Hermione and Harry exchanged worried glances.

"Hermione, if you would excuse us," Harry said calmly, his gaze locked with Snape's.

Trembling, Hermione ran out the door, her throat tightening as she shut the door behind her.

Snape was shaking with rage as Harry pulled up a chair next to the bed.

"Potter," he spat, before a wet, wheezing cough racked his body.

"Professor," Harry said calmly, pulling a small box out of his trousers, "I'd rather show you than tell you."

Snape glared at him as Harry tapped the box with his wand, and it unfolded itself, growing larger and larger until a full-sized pensieve stood in front of them.

Impressive bit of spellwork, Snape admitted begrudgingly.

Harry drew his wand up to his temple, pulling stream after stream of memory out and letting it sink into the basin. Without a word, Harry stood up, leaving Snape to view the pensieve.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as his feet rested on the worn wooden floor. That one movement had caused such pain, he wondered briefly if he would be able to make the few feet to the pensieve. Gritting his teeth, he heaved himself off the bed. The pain was excruciating. Every muscle screamed in protest as he shuffled towards the glowing memories. He gripped the sides of the basin with long, bony fingers, his greasy hair falling over his eyes as he bent over the swirling mist.

He landed lightly. This was a strange place. Was it King's Cross? No, it couldn't be. He shared Potter's trepidtion at the eerie, abandoned train station.

"You cannot help."

Both Harry and Snape spun around.

Dumbledore.

Snape watched as Dumbledore explained his mistakes with the horcruxes. He couldn't help but feel a little loathing for the wizard.

"Can you not think of one man who is, perhaps, more deserving of life than any other? A man who you know now, to have given up his life entirely?"

Potter was silent. No doubt he was thinking of Lily, or even Black. Snape doubted he would be on the boy's mind at all.

"The greater good comes with its prices, Harry. Unfortunately, it exacted its heaviest toll on Severus Snape."

Snape's jaw twitched.

So the old man did feel some measure of guilt. Snape felt a flicker of triumph in his gut.

"You did nothing to prevent it! Or ease it in any way! The way you treated him…" Harry said bitterly.

Snape was shocked.

Potter, the bane of his existence, and the reason for, was here defending him bravely.

Ever the Gryffindor.

He was his mother's son.

"I do not deny that I exacted more cruelty on Severus than he deserved."

"He didn't deserve any, you knew that."

Snape scoffed.

Potter was, no doubt, operating under the poorly conceived notion that he, Severus Snape, was some kind of tortured hero.

Snape had without a doubt earned his share of punishment.

"But sir, would he even want to come back?"

Snape watched as Harry approached his shadowy figure with caution, and Snape's throat tightened as he spoke to Snape like an old friend.

"Your days of apologies are over," Harry said firmly.

Not an enemy, not as Snivelus or the Greasy Dungeon Bat.

A friend.

Scowling, Snape willed the emotion away.

The memory faded, and Snape was walking across the grounds with the Golden Trio. Their sickeningly sweet exchanges were making him ill. He did his best to keep his distance, although when he walked behind them he couldn't help but notice the way Granger's bony hips swayed, and for the first time ever, he saw a woman instead of a girl.

True, she was obscenely thin, although he had no right to fault someone for that, judging by how thin he had been at her age.

At her age.

He was more than twice her senior. He felt every bit the part of a dirty old man as he followed them to the Shrieking Shack.

Snape was jolted back to reality as they came upon his corpse.

Gooseflesh broke over his skin, and he gave an involuntary shudder. The care they took with his body, the tenderness there touched him in a way he had never felt.

Is this what friends felt like?

He had loathed Potter for years, mistaking the boy's physical similarity to his father, when the boy was kinder and truer than Lily had ever been.

Of course, he would never admit this, even on pain of death.

The ghoulish ceremony affected him more than a thousand crucios. It was almost unbearable to watch as the glowing leeches oozed into his body, yet the three friends remained steadfast, as if averting their gaze would weaken the spell, or even break it. He was thankful when the memory ended, and he rose up from the basin.

He stared at his hands, too shocked to move just yet.

A chance to live again. His own life.

Snape had been living at someone's behest for so long, he didn't even know where to begin.

His _own_ life? His _own_ master?

His debt to Lily had been paid, the boy was safe, and his job was finished.

A dull throbbing in his neck reminded him that he was indeed alive, and that he needed to sit down.

There was a brisk knock.

"Come," he said, pleased that the silky timbre of his voice had returned.

Untidy black hair and green eyes.

Potter.

"May I?" He asked, sitting in the chair next to Snape.

There was an uncomfortable silence as Harry took his glasses off, cleaning them on his tatty shirt.

"The Ministry's cleared you," Harry said, reaching into his pocket for a handsome box.

"Another pensieve?" Snape drawled.

Harry grinned, handing Snape the box.

"For you."

Snape opened the box, and was met with a sight he never thought he would see.

_Impossible_.


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: Special thanks to my beta, Annie. Reviews make me update _faster_ and make the lemons _hotter_.**

_Harry grinned, handing Snape the box._

"_For you."_

_Hesitantly, Snape opened the box, and was met with a sight he never thought he would see._

_Impossible._

A shining gold disc glittered and twinkled at him from the velvet lining of the box, and he was just able to make out the elegant, curving script that read:

Order of Merlin, First Class: Awarded to Severus Tobias Snape this 5/17/1997.

For the second time that day, Snape's throat burned and tightened with emotion. He was speechless.

"The reporters have been trying desperately to get a hold of you, every publication from _The Prophet_ to _Witch Weekly_," Harry said, leaning back into the chair, "I've kept the letters in case you want to give an interview."

Snape barely heard the boy; he was too busy tracing his name, _his name_ on the award.

"Oh. And there's fan mail too."

Snape's head snapped up, his expression a mix of horror and disbelief.

"Yeah," Harry laughed, "we've had to clear out a spot on the kitchen table for it." Harry stood, his shoulders sagging, as he made his way to the door.

"Oh, before I forget: there's a banquet dinner in a few weeks. If you want to go," he said abruptly, his hand resting on the door knob.

Snape narrowed his eyes, and there was an awkward silence.

"Right, then. I'll leave you to it."

He scowled as the boy left, shutting the door behind him. Potter was trying too hard. Just because Potter knew about Lily and himself, didn't change the fact he loathed Lily's son. Just because Potter had brought him back from the dead (which he still resented) didn't change years of hate. Just because Potter had protected him and did not mean he had to like the boy.

His scowl deepened as Hermione returned, fiddling with IV bags and charms. He clutched his medal in his hand tightly, clenching his jaw. Even her presence irritated him, and it annoyed, angered him even, that she looked so pathetic—in her ill-fitting trousers and ratty sweater, her lifeless hair and bloodshot eyes.

You'd be hard pressed to find something that _didn't _annoy Severus Snape.

She sat primly on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch him, as if he had dragon pox.

"I'm just going to take your temperature, Professor," she said softly, pointing her wand at his head.

He snatched her delicate wrist, yanking her towards him, and Hermione gasped, her breath tickling his face.

"Don't. Point. That. At. _Me_," he hissed, shoving her away.

Hermione's cheeks flushed with anger.

"Shut up," she said shrilly, jumping up, her fists balled at her sides.

"What did you say?" he asked in a dangerously low, calm tone, and Hermione knew she was in trouble.

She didn't care.

"I said shut up! I've done nothing but care for you for _weeks_, you should show the tiniest bit of gratitude, you great git!" she exclaimed.

Snape raised an eyebrow.

There was silence. Somewhere in the house, Ron dropped a plate.

She took a shaky breath.

"Are you quite finished?"

She glared at him and pointed her wand at him expectantly.

"That depends. May I?"

With a deadly sneer, he relaxed back onto the pillows, his black eyes burning holes into hers.

_If looks could kill…_

Days went by, and Hermione and Snape became easier around each other. It turned out she wasn't quite as annoying as he remembered. It seemed the year away from Hogwarts had done her some good. She was no longer desperate to prove herself, no longer a constant chatterbox. Even her movement had changed. Where once she had been hectic, constantly moving—almost insect-like—now she was calmer, smoother, more measured. It seemed she was the only one who understood, to some extent (Snape was loathe to think that he was anyone to be 'understood', like some teenage nitwit) his pride. She didn't baby him, or humiliate him with pity and coddling. Now that he was conscious, she didn't hover constantly, or insert herself rudely into his personal space. She left him to his own devices, and gave help only if he asked for it.

Which was never.

It was a good arrangement.

Days turned to weeks, and still they rarely spoke. Snape wagered they spent about two hours in each other's presence every day—speaking only when absolutely necessary. She brought him journals and books to keep him occupied, but that didn't stop the restlessness from creeping in. He noticed the extent of this restlessness on a warm June afternoon.

Hermione had come up with his lunch, as she did everyday, only she was not clothed in her normal atrocious, frumpy Muggle clothing. Had she been at Hogwarts, Snape would have docked points immediately—not because the outfit was risqué or inappropriate—because it wasn't. It was because of how it—she—made him feel. She had opted for some sleeveless grey shirt, a shirt that actually _fit_. It was not designed to be seductive or attractive in any way, but Merlin help him, it was. It revealed her tiny waist and modest bust and her long, wiry arms. The same could not be said of her pants, however; they were clearly a Weasley castoff, baggy khakis covered with various splotches and stains. She was quite sweaty, and on any other person, it would have been unattractive—yet to Snape's chagrin, it was not unattractive.

Not on Hermione Granger.

Her curly hair was coming undone, sticking to the back of her neck, a fine layer of moisture glistening on her arms. She was glowing from exertion, whatever she had been doing, her skin pink and dewy. She radiated a quiet, self-possessed strength that was years beyond an eighteen year old. Snape was so engrossed in this change, in seeing her for what felt like the first time, he almost didn't notice the line of twisted flesh just barely covered by her shirt—but not quite. There, just under her arm—if he didn't have several scars just like it, he would have missed it.

He knew that spell.

So Granger took a sectumsempra, right across the chest. He had forgotten about that. He recalled making potions for her after the Ministry fiasco—he never administered them, of course, but he knew exactly what his brainchild did to the body.

He had been, against his will, impressed. He knew many grown wizards who weren't up to the task of enduring the immediate aftereffects, not to mention the recovery.

As she busied herself clearing his books and papers from the table, he continued his shrewd examination of her, much how he had examined everyone these many years: it was habit by now—to find out everything he could by the slightest tics, expressions, even body language. He had watched her for six years—and whether she knew it or not, he knew her rather well. The girl he taught for five years had darted into the thick fog of war last summer and emerged a woman not two weeks ago.

She was weary; he could see it in her body. It was not physical exhaustion, he noted, but rather emotional—psychological. She carried it well, but not well enough for it to go unnoticed by him. She had aged considerably—not physically, of course. So had he at her age. When he looked at her, he did not see the eyes of a carefree eighteen year old looking back at him: he saw a woman who had borne the weight of the world.

He tensed as she bent over him, checking his pulse, pressing her wand to his wrist. His nostrils flared as he caught her scent, so much more pronounced with the heat. She didn't have a scent he could categorize as something ridiculous like jasmine or roses—that was not Hermione. The moisture weeping out of her pores was not bitter or sour, but rather soft. It reminded Snape of Pomona's greenhouse—a vibrant collage of green, covered in heady mist. He had the sudden urge to be closer to that smell, to bury his face in her neck.

"Granger, if you insist on shoving your person in my face, might you consider a shower?" he snapped, jerking his head to the side to escape her tantalizing scent. He heard her laugh.

"You're one to talk," she snorted, tucking her wand back in her pocket, throwing an accusatory glance at his hair. Snape scowled, but some part of him was pleased: so there was a spark of life in her yet.

"Granger," he called out to her retreating form.

She turned around, looking at him expectantly.

He said nothing, but gave a curt nod of thanks.

Hermione shut the door behind her with a _click_, her stomach doing somersaults.

_Stop it!_ She told herself fiercely, balling her fists as she made her way down the stairs. As she rounded the corner into the kitchen, her face lit up.

Harry and Ginny were sitting at the kitchen table—a welcome sight. Harry was hardly ever home, and Ginny had been at Hogwarts.

"Hey!" Ginny said brightly, springing up from the table and enveloping her in a tight hug.

"Ginny it's been ages," Hermione said, squeezing the redhead back, "Hey Harry," she said over Ginny's shoulder.

There was a _pop_, and Kreacher appeared with a plate of sandwiches. "Excellent. This is great, Kreacher, thanks," Harry said with relish.

Kreacher's ears perked up, and he bowed low to Harry, "Kreacher is pleased to serve Master and his friends," he croaked, pleased that he had received a compliment. He disappeared, and Hermione heard him upstairs, scrubbing the floor. Hermione wished he would let her help, but every time she offered, he flatly refused, grumbling about a house elf's pride.

Hermione slid into a chair across from them, plucking a tea sandwich off the plate.

"Snape any better?" Ginny asked through a mouthful. Hermione nodded.

"His left side is still giving him trouble, but not as much as last week."

Harry relaxed visibly, cleaning his glasses on his shirt.

"That's great," he said, nodding enthusiastically.

"The house isn't giving you trouble, is it?" Ginny asked darkly. Hermione shook her head.

"No, Kreacher's taken care of the cleaning, but most of the de-hexing has been pretty easy. We did most of it sixth year," Hermione said, motioning to Ginny and herself.

"I noticed good ol' Walburga hasn't made a peep since we came in," Harry said wryly.

"Oh," Hermione sniffed, "we might not be able to change the sticking charm, but a silencing charm works miracles. Now she can scream all she wants."

Harry smacked his forehead, "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're thick as a Horntail's hide," Ginny teased, winking at Hermione. She grinned, watching the playful exchange between Harry and Ginny. When they were here, it was as if a weight had been lifted.

"Listen—Hermione—wait, where's Ron?" Ginny began, looking around her.

"Study I think," Hermione said quietly, and Ginny strode off to retrieve her brother. Harry noticed the change in Hermione's mood.

"What's up, Hermione?" Harry asked seriously, once Ginny was out of earshot.

"I don't know," she sighed, fiddling with her sandwich, "things just don't…"

"Feel the same," Harry finished. Hermione nodded.

"Ron didn't come out like we did, Harry. We've grown up. He just…hasn't," Hermione said sadly.

"I know," Harry said, "he's my best mate, and so are you."

They were silent for a moment.

"I think we want different things," she confessed quietly.

There.

She had said it out loud.

"What do you mean?" Harry prodded, leaning forward on his elbows.

"I think, well, I _know_ he wants to just dive into this headfirst. Marriage, babies, the lot," Hermione explained carefully, "I'm not ready for those things. I have plans, Harry."

"Of course you do," Harry agreed, "you should. Does he know about them? I'm sure he's not opposed to you following your dreams, Hermione."

"He gets quiet when I talk about going back to Hogwarts, or when I mention University. I'm not ready to abandon my education, Harry," she whispered, hearing Ron and Ginny's footsteps grow closer.

"Give it time," he whispered back, just as they came into the kitchen.

"'Ey!" Ron exclaimed, pulling Harry into a hug, "When'd you two get here? I didn't even know you were coming."

"Just now," Harry said as he and Ron pulled apart.

"Fancy a drink?" Harry asked, and Ron nodded, yawning. A flash of annoyance shot through Hermione.

_Merlin, is it so hard to cover your mouth?_

"Sure. This place is driving me daft," Ron replied.

While the boys gathered their robes, Ginny turned to Hermione.

"Want to show me these 'movies' Muggles love so much?" Ginny asked, waggling her eyebrows.

Relief blossomed inside Hermione.

"Absolutely."

Hermione took Harry's advice. She spent a few days paying close attention to her feelings, and found herself feeling increasingly guilty over her annoyance with Ron.

She was _supposed_ to love him, that's how it was _supposed_ to be, wasn't it? She had always assumed Harry would marry Ginny, and she would marry Ron. Her fantasies of red-headed children seemed a lifetime ago. Their journey had changed her, of that she was certain. It had obviously changed Harry—it had aged them both considerably. Ron, however, seemed to be unaffected; he clung to the remaining vestiges of childhood as if nothing had happened. The beep of her wristwatch jerked her from her thoughts.

Snape's lunch.

"Kreacher?"

Pop!

"Miss called Kreacher?" the ancient elf asked.

"Yes. Could you whip up some lunch? I think we can move him to solids now," she said.

With a low bow, he disappeared, the banging of pots and pans seranading her ascent to Snape's room.

He was hidden behind _The Prophet_, and Hermione was glad. She was in no mood for his judgement today. She was silent as she took his temperature and pulse.

"Kreacher will be up with your lunch shortly," she said, tucking her wand into her back pocket. Snape studied her, and Hermione shifted uncomfortably under his scrutinizing gaze. Clearly, she wanted to avoid him today. Usually she came up with his lunch, taking her time to tidy his things, to ensure he was comfortable. Something was wrong.

_Potter perhaps?_

"Potter is…" he questioned.

"Ministry," she replied, clearing a space on the table for his lunch.

"And Weasley?"

Hermione dropped the pile of letters she was moving, cursing under her breath.

_Ah_, Snape thought, allowing himself a satisfied smirk. She continued to busy herself with his mail, stacking things into neat piles on the window seat.

"Miss Granger," he purred, "you still haven't told me where Weasley is."

"I don't _know_!" she snapped, whirling around to face him. She seemed embarrassed by her outburst, and she blushed, rubbing her forehead with an elegant hand.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" she asked, her tone clipped, her eyes shut as she regained her composure.

He crossed his arms.

"Yes. You can tell me what has you so perplexed. I'll not have you taking it out on my possessions."

She looked taken aback. Rightfully so, he supposed. He had only one motive: to dissect her. He couldn't care less about her feelings or her problems.

He was bored.

When she didn't take the bait, he simply said, "Very well," and resumed reading the paper.

He waited.

He felt the depression on the bed and gave a victorious smirk as he let the paper fall to his lap.

He had her. Soon she would pour her bleeding Gryffindor heart out to him.

She picked at the quilt.

It was not lost on Snape that she chose to sit on the bed as opposed to a chair.

"I had planned on marrying Ron," she confessed quietly, "but now that it's over…being _with_ him is terrible. Harry and I, we've changed…"

"And he hasn't," Snape finished.

All too easy.

"I fail to see why that upsets you, it was quite predictable," he continued, knowing full well _why_, he just wanted her to say it out loud.

She sighed.

"I've had my life mapped out since I was eleven—I always knew what I wanted and how to get there. I wanted university, a career. Somewhere along the way…my ambitions, my desires got pushed to the side. Rightfully so, really, but what bothered me the most was that I was no longer in control. Everyone else has their own expectations and I don't want to follow them," she said firmly.

That was not the answer he was expecting.

"And I'm afraid. Whatever I choose, neither path ends well," she said, standing up, avoiding his gaze.

"Kreacher will bring lunch soon," she said, her shoulders hunched as she walked out, shutting the door behind her with a soft _click_.

Snape knew exactly how she felt. He touched the spot on the quilt that was still warm. Baiting her into baring her feelings was not as gratifying as he thought it would have been.

It was terrifying.

While her circumstances differed from his when he was her age, her plight was the same. No doubt her closeness with the Weasleys had formed certain ludicrous fairytale expectations over the years—her crush on the boy had certainly not helped matters. If she accepted Weasley, she would condemn herself to a life of domestic hell—and she would wither and die. If she denied him, she would be on the outs with the Weasleys—who had been her only refuge over the years.

This knowledge did not bring him the joy he thought it would, which meant only one thing: he was, against his better judgment, developing feelings for Hermione Granger. Snape glared at the door, his eyes smoldering with rage.

Hermione was confused. Not two days ago, Snape had been almost civil. Now he was vicious—his tongue sharper, and his words more hurtful than ever. Hermione didn't understand. His health had improved drastically, his limp was only slight, and he wasn't leaning on his cane as much. His pain had clearly decreased. She couldn't imagine what she had said to make him so angry, since his health was clearly not the cause. It was made even worse by the fact that he was able to use the stairs now, and thusly make it to the study. For the most part, Hermione avoided him. At 3:00, she sat at the kitchen table with a hot cup of tea, drumming her fingers on the wood, staring at the clock. She wanted a book, but she _really_ didn't want to venture into the study. After a few minutes, she stood up in a huff, the chair scraping the hardwood floor.

"Absolutely ridiculous," she mumbled, marching determinedly into the study, her nose held defiantly in the air. She could feel his icy glare and she shivered, running her fingers over the spines of the books.

Snape scowled, shoving the image of those fingers out of his mind, hiding his face behind the latest copy of _The Practical Potioneer_.

Her very presence irritated him. No one made him feel anything without his consent. Not since _her_. He grew more and more irate as she continued to linger.

"Pick. One." He snarled from behind the journal. Hermione blushed, but was determined to hold her ground.

"I'll pick one when I'm good and ready," she countered hotly, her hands on her hips.

Snape felt rage shoot through him, and he wanted to hex her into oblivion. Quick and smooth as a snake, he rose from his chair, and Hermione briefly marveled at how he had recovered enough to allow such movement. As he advanced on her, she appreciated for the first time his full height, feeling only slightly ridiculous at 5'4.

"What did you say?" he hissed, closing in on her, and Hermione saw the Death Eater in him rear its head; his eyes filled with such rage, she felt fear, but something else too—something more potent, the combination of desire and fear squirming around in her stomach, slick and slimy like tadpoles. He continued to advance on her, and she swallowed thickly when her back hit the shelf.

"What. Did. You. Say?" he repeated, his face inches from hers, his crooked teeth bared. She darted to the side, trying to escape, but he was too quick. His arms shot out and trapped her. Hermione could have escaped, if she wanted to. Ducking under his arms would be no problem.

But she rather liked being trapped. She clenched her jaw, bravely meeting his terrifying stare.

"I said I'll pick one when I'm ready," she said, her voice low and steady despite the alarm she felt inside. His lips curled into a cold smirk, cruel and condescending, but Hermione could not tear her gaze from his. Yes, his malice and borderline wickedness terrified her, but she _knew_ he would not hurt her. Not after what she had seen, what Harry had told her. His aggressiveness did not have the effect Snape had no doubt intended. It was not intimidation to Hermione.

It was foreplay.

It was not the rage in his eyes that was making her blush, it was the intensity.

It was not the fact that he was close enough to hurt her that was making her tremble; it was the fact that he was close enough to kiss her.

The air between them was heavy with tension and resistance, as if they were two magnets fighting to stay away from each other. Her desire for him radiated off her body in hot waves, only a fool would be unable to detect it.

Snape was no fool.

Here she was, at his mercy. His control was slipping. It was a mistake to have gotten this close to her. He could smell her: the faint scent of detergent and lotion, her hot breath gentle puffs of chamomile, no doubt from her tea. That was not all he smelled,

and if there was one thing his wretched nose was good for, it was smell. His hands, placed on either side of her head, were close enough to feel her ridiculous hair.

She trembled underneath his calculating gaze, and he could feel the heat coming off her body, her doe-like eyes staring up at him, trying so hard to be brave, yet he could see the desire swirling like melted chocolate in her honey eyes. Her eyes drifted down to his lips, and she looked as though she wanted to feel them on her skin more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.

He was done for.

With a defeated groan, he grabbed her head, tangling his long fingers deep in her hair and crushed his lips to hers with bruising force.

_Yes! Finally!_ she thought triumphantly as her mouth fell open, moaning as his skilled, hot tongue invaded her mouth, the violence and desperation having no effect on the precision of his kiss. This was how snogging should be. Ron's kisses were nothing like this, his were sloppy and weak, as if he wasn't quite sure what he wanted to do.

Snape was communicating very effectively what he wanted to do to her—and it was clear he didn't just want to kiss her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her breasts up against his chest, needing to be closer to him, wanting his mouth everywhere. He nipped her bottom lip, and Hermione's stomach did a flip, and she felt molten heat pool in her panties.

His hands slid down her back, cupping her bottom and pulling her roughly against him with a grunt—apparently he needed to be closer as well. She gasped as she felt him through the seam of her jeans, and she instinctively ground her hips against him, wanting to alleviate and chase this new feeling. He growled at the contact, a deep, rumbling sound that was both dangerous and erotic. Hermione wasn't snogging a boy. Snape was a man. And since his voice was by far one of her favorite things about him, it was fitting that his noises would be equally thrilling. The difference between Ron and Snape was substantial. Ron's noises were almost like hers—delicate little moans and gasps—nothing like the primal masculine sounds Snape made that filled her with pride and made her blood race. She could feel the rough beginnings of his whiskers rubbing against her chin as his mouth moved against hers, and reveled in the strength of his hands, of his body. His fingers gripped her bottom tighter, and Hermione cried out in frustration. She was sure that if she didn't have him inside her at that moment, she'd go mad.

"Please," she whimpered, placing his hand at the apex of her jeans, needing to feel him _there_.

He tore his mouth from hers as if he'd been burned, stumbling backwards and turning away from her. She had never seen him in such distress. He was hunched over, using the arm of a leather chair for support, clutching his face in his hands. His shoulders were heaving with the force of his breathing.

"Get out," he panted, but it sounded more like pleading.

She stood rooted to the spot, wanting to comfort him, wanting to ask why he stopped, what she had done wrong.

When she did not respond, he spun around, his face contorted with rage.

"Get OUT!" He roared, and he was no longer a vision of vulnerable distress. Hermione jumped, so unexpected was his sudden change in tone, volume, and composure. She darted out the door faster than she had ever run, her socked feet sliding as she rounded a corner, slamming into the wall. Still shaking, Hermione closed her eyes, her heart pounding. She heard his determined stride, the fall of his boots on the wood floor, the movement of his cloak as it swished around him. She heard him yank open the door and slam it behind him.

Hermione sank down the wall, running her tongue over her lips, her eyes still shut, her expression that of bliss.

He had kissed her.

He wanted her.

Snape stormed down the sidewalk, cursing himself, barely noticing the stares he was receiving.

_You gutless idiot_, he seethed, _where was your self-control?_ He ground his teeth, replaying the incident over in his head.

_Ah, but she responded_, his brain argued. He was furious. He was the master of self-control. Giving into emotions, into vices and desires—that was something Lucius did. Something the weak did. But there was a tiny part of him that was elated she had responded. He groaned. Merlin, did she ever. The way she had looked at him, _devoured_ him with her gaze. The way she had clung to him like she had never wanted anything so badly in her life, like he was the most precious thing in the world to her. And her _kiss_. Snape had awakened something in her, of that he was certain. He was no stranger to carnal acts, even those of the most disturbing kind. But Hermione Granger's attention had brought him to his _knees_. The intensity there, the longing and crippling desire had affected him more than the Cruciatus. He could safely say he had never experienced such physical intensity, such longing, not even for Lily. Certainly not _with_ Lily. And when she put his hand on her, begged him to touch her, he had never wanted anything more in his life than to have her right there on the floor.

Which was why he stopped. He didn't know how he had done it; he refused to give himself credit for regaining the control he shouldn't have lost in the first place.

God, how he wanted her.

But the fact remained, she was eighteen years old. _Merlin_, he thought, _when she was born I was already older than she is now_. This did nothing to alleviate his self-disgust. He was a dirty old man, incapable of forming attachments to anyone except young, foolhardy Gryffindor women. _Girls_, he reminded himself harshly, trying to put her in a different light, trying to imagine her as the annoying little bushy-haired know-it-all first year, thrusting her hand in the air, waving it around ridiculously, desperate for approval.

The thought made him sick. He couldn't imagine her like that. The deed was done. She was an adult to him, plain and simple, and he couldn't un-see the woman she had become, much as he wanted to. He ducked into an ally, garnering several strange looks, frustrated he hadn't cast a Disillusionment Charm.

_Look what you've let her do to you_, he scolded himself,_ disillusionment was the first thing you should have done. Not wandering down the street like a broken-hearted fourth year!_

He stepped carefully over discarded rubbish, coming to stand before the brick wall. He cast several glamours to ensure he was not recognized as Severus Snape, but rather a short, squat balding man. Gripping his wand tightly, his jaw twitching, he tapped the proper bricks. The bricks shifted and scraped against each other, the wall groaning as it revealed Diagon Alley, and Snape brushed past the still moving bricks, not stopping until he reached The Leaky Cauldron.

Many of the shops that had been closed down were still dark, their windows dusty. There was, however, no fear anymore: there was caution, of course, but the Alley was no longer a stale husk of commerce. Where once people came only when absolutely necessary, their eyes darting wildly around, there were now a generous amount of shoppers (at that ridiculous Weasley shop, of course), a fair few enjoying Fortescue's, and the wide-eyed youngsters clutching their new wands in one hand (Ollivander had set up shop again), school books in the other. He pushed open the heavy wooden door to the Cauldron, and was pleasantly surprised. There was the same air of homey nonchalance, and it was comforting. Familiar. Its patrons seemed unchanged, not particularly boisterous or joyful; all in all, the Cauldron was fairly uneventful and unremarkable.

This suited Snape.

"Ogden's," he grunted at the bartender, Tom, who had barely changed either. As Tom busied himself with Snape's drink, rattling glasses and bottles, Snape sat smoothly on a well-secluded stool, the shadows there hiding him well. No doubt it looked odd, such a short and awkward looking man moving with all the grace of a jungle cat. Tom set the glass in front of him, pouring a generous amount of the amber liquid, four fingers at least, Snape wagered.

Good man.

"Lady troubles, eh?" Tom said knowingly.

Snape was silent, choosing to ignore the weathered bartender, pouring the contents of the glass down his throat.

He closed his eyes, savoring the rich burn melting down his throat. He shuddered. It wasn't called Firewhiskey without reason. He was a creature of cold things, of cool, damp earth and chilly November mornings. Coldness was measured and controlled, with no room for mistakes or emotions. Heat was all that was exotic, forbidden.

Most of all, the forbidden.

The heat blossomed in his chest, and Snape was reminded of how similar this was to the effect Hermione, _no, Granger_, he corrected himself, made him feel. She had slithered into his brain (and other parts of his anatomy), with the gentle use of her barbed tongue, her willingness to trust him, her genuine concern for him, her beautiful clever mind.

And then there were her more _physical_ attributes. The elegant curves of her face, the sensual shape of her eyes, the delicate clavicle giving way to her ivory throat. His desire for her, like Ogden's, spread slowly, deliciously, through his veins, growing hotter and hotter, begging to be stoked, testing the limits of his control, daring him to make a move (it dawned on him that heat was a very _Gryffindor_ sensation). His mind wandered: the heat of her mouth, the heat of her skin, the heat of her—

"Another?" asked Tom, interrupting his lurid thoughts.

He nodded, and the old man refilled the glass another four fingers. It was gone as quickly as the first.

"She leave you?"

Snape glared at him. _What a rude little man_, he scoffed, but felt compelled to answer. After all, he had no reputation to protect in this accursed disguise. Why not?

"No. She…wanted more," Snape said awkwardly, having never spoken to another wizard about his _feelings _other than Albus, and certainly not with a stranger. Exposing feelings was for the weak.

"And you're not the giving type, eh? Color me surprised," Tom chortled quietly.

Anger flashed in Snape's eyes, and he slammed the glass on the bar.

"I have given more than you could ever dream, old man," he seethed. _There you go again, losing your temper_.

He settled back down, regaining his composure. That was twice today.

"Another…please," he said, in an effort to sound civil. Tom was seemingly unaffected, sporting a mysterious little smile reminding Snape of a certain white-haired wizard who used to wear that exact same expression.

"She's too young," Snape confessed quietly, more to the glass than to Tom, choosing to sip this time.

Tom looked briefly alarmed.

"She's not…" he asked uncomfortably.

"Of course not," Snape glared, bristling at the insinuation, "she's eighteen."

Tom let out a bark of laughter, waving his hand in dismissal.

"You're a wizard, aren't you? Thing about us is we _last_," Tom said, leaning on his forearms, his eyes level with Snape, "An age gap like that is a _Muggle_ concern. I've been right here, working in this bar, for near a century. My wife was in nappies when I was fifty. So if you want to whine about an age gap of twenty years, you'll find no sympathy here."

Snape eyed the man suspiciously. His glamour made him look like a man of fifty, sixty even. The fact he knew Snape was wearing one gave testament to just how rattled Snape was—usually he pulled off this glamour flawlessly. He was clearly too distracted to play his part effectively.

Snape regarded Tom, his face stony and solemn.

"I couldn't do that to her. She has her entire life—"

"What, ahead of her?" Tom interrupted. "So do you, my young friend. You might think you're decrepit and well past your prime, but you're a young pup. No glamour can hide that. You let her decide what she wants."

Snape scowled at the glass, swirling the contents, letting Tom's words sink in. So his glamour wasn't entirely successful. He cursed himself inwardly.

"Besides," Tom said, dropping his voice and leaning towards Snape, "war's over. Nothing to protect her from."

Snape's head shot up_, _and he waited for the old man to continue.

Tom said nothing, only winked.

"Another?" he asked.

Snape shook his head.

"No, thank you. I'll be on my way," he said curtly, dropping a few sickles on the bar-top, wrapping his robes around him. He could apparate, he supposed—his body would thank him, but his mind would not. Ignoring his protesting limbs, he began the long walk back to Grimmauld place.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N

I need a good beta! Shoot me a PM at MaloneSSHG (AT) gee-mail (DOT) com


	7. Chapter 7

The walk back to Grimmauld Place took longer than he remembered, most likely due to the fact that he wasn't walking at a furious pace, and the fact that his body was protesting the amount of stress it had endured today.

The sky was so dark it looked like dusk, and there was a constant, warm breeze. He enjoyed summer storms; they were one of the few kinds of weather he did enjoy.

He stared ahead, replaying what Tom had said. Was it really so bad, the idea of Hermione and himself? Albus had lived a long life—and he would have lived longer still, had his body not been ravaged by dark magic, and, of course, had Snape not killed him. But did the fact that he and Hermione had a longer lifespan make it all right? He had (and might still be, if Hermione decided to finish her seventh year, and McGonnagal re-instated him as Defense professor) been in a position of authority. Her teacher. The approval of one ancient bartender did not ease his anxiety or his guilt. He was so deep in thought he almost missed Grimmauld Place—Harry had decided to keep certain privacy wards until things were calm again.

Snape flicked his wand at the building, and Grimmauld Place squeezed between two flats, stretching into its natural state. As he approached the door, he saw Hermione's shadow cross the study window, filling him with a queer feeling. He brushed it aside, shutting the door quietly behind him and reset the wards. He heard raised voices and regretted leaving the Leaky Cauldron.

"… don't _need_ to go. We can all get into Auror School with no problem! We can get anything, you can work at the ministry if you want, you don't need university!"

Weasley.

The dolt _would_ have the audacity to suggest this to her.

She was angry; he could hear that, her hissing whisper was sign enough. Eavesdropping was not hard, for him at least, he thought with a smirk, stepping into the corner, years of practice allowing him to melt into the shadows.

"I _know_, Ron, but I want to earn my degree! I've wanted to do this since I was a girl! I don't want to be an Auror and I don't want to work for the Ministry!" Hermione pleaded.

There was silence.

"Can't you just, y'know, wait a few years?" Ron suggested dumbly.

Snape snorted quietly.

"I'm not ready for all that, Ron. We haven't even finished our education at Hogwarts yet, there's so much I want to do that I haven't done!"

"Oh, what, get as many N.E.W.T.s as you can just to prove it?" Ron retorted hotly.

That struck a nerve with Hermione.

"Some of us want more out of life than six years of magical education and season passes to the Chudley Cannons!" She hissed, and Snape felt a surge of pride—and victory. He remained still as she burst through the study doors, bounding up the stairs and slamming her door.

"Hermione!" Ron called after her, making a weak effort to follow her, choosing to whine at her door. Snape used this moment to make his way to the kitchen.

_Maybe I should wait to talk to her tomorrow_, Snape thought, laughing bitterly at the fact he was even having this conversation with himself. He busied himself with filling the kettle, ignoring the heavy, uneven footsteps that made their way loudly down the stairs. Their oafish owner made his way into the kitchen.

He could hear Weasley breathing loudly through his mouth.

Snape slammed the kettle on the stove. Ron's eyes widened, his mouth hanging open dumbly.

"Sorry, didn' see you," he mumbled.

Snape scowled, his pride bristling at the fact this dunderhead was actual competition for Hermione's affection.

Assuming he wanted to pursue it. Her.

His baser instincts wanted him to rip the redhead in half for being in his presence. They sat in an uncomfortable silence, with Ron looking everywhere but at Snape.

"I'm going home," Ron blurted out.

Snape raised an eyebrow.

"The smartest thing you've ever done, no doubt," Snape spat. Ron turned an ugly shade of red, backing quietly out of the kitchen. Snape heard the Floo activate and knew he was gone.

It was just he and Hermione.

Alone.

Snape gripped the kettle handle, his knuckles turning white. Hero he might be, but he was still a man, and not a very good one. Perhaps deep down, but certainly not the vast majority of him. His moral compass had no true north, it spun madly, having virtually no direction. There was nothing stopping him from breaking down her door and having her.  
The thought made the Death Eater inside him uncurl and stretch.

His jaw twitched as he poured one mug of tea. Chamomile, her favorite.

_Control yourself._

He made his way back to his room, leaning heavily on his cane, levitating the tea. He winced as a particularly sharp pain shot up his side. That stunt he pulled today set his recovery back three weeks, no doubt.

_Weakling_ he seethed, getting up the stairs and to his room with no small amount of difficulty. He slammed his door behind him, a deep scowl etched in his face. He could hear her muggle music box from where he stood. It was something simple, plain—nothing unusually attractive to hear, but because it was hers it tugged at him nonetheless, as if it was trying to lure him.

He gritted his teeth.

The bathroom was the furthest away from the door; perhaps he could escape her there. Perhaps the heat of a bath would soothe his muscles. Hanging his cane in midair, he bent over his trunk, pulling out a small wooden box. He opened it, running his fingers over the smooth, cool glass vials inside. He was running low on calming draught, he would have to replenish soon. He tipped the vial into his tea, swirling the liquids together. Grabbing his cane, he limped to the bathroom, his brow furrowed.

_I need to get away from here,_ he thought, bending over the tub.

He twisted the knobs over the faucet viciously, shoving the plug in the drain.

_Away from her._

He unclasped his robe, tossing it over a chair. He began to undress, staring at the wall.

_Owl Minerva tomorrow. Ask for your old position back._

He grasped the edges of the tub, easing himself into the water, hissing at the scalding temperature.

_Weakling_ he repeated, _she's making you weak. Master yourself._

He was desperate to get away from her, especially after today. Now that had tasted her, it would be impossible to resist her. While he had outstanding self-control, he was still a man. A man with limits. There was no Albus hovering over his shoulder, inhibiting his actions. He drank deeply of the tea, his mouth flooding with chamomile, and he remembered instantly how her mouth tasted.

He groaned softly, leaning his head back, closing his eyes, giving in.

How would the rest of her taste?

He imagined what he could do to her—he tortured himself, knowing that all of it was his for the taking. She would not resist him, he knew that.

And she was in the next room, not fifty feet from him.

He'd break down her door, yanking her up from her pathetic despair over Weasley, making her forget as he covered her mouth with his. She'd moan into his mouth, curling her hands into his hair, tearing at his scalp, pulling him closer.

He ran his hand through his hair, raking his nails over it, shivering.

He felt himself stir, coming to attention. Hesitantly, he fisted it, gripping himself firmly.

What would he do then?

He imagined she'd be wearing that sleeveless grey shirt.

_Yessssss_

That shirt that stretched tightly over her modest breasts, exposed the pale strip of flesh between her shirt and pants.

He'd tear it off her.

He imagined her eyes would go wide, halfway between fear and surprise, as he shoved her onto the bed, yanking her pajama pants off.

And then she would be completely at his mercy.

His cock jumped at the though, and he spread the drop of moisture weeping from the head around with his thumb, hissing in pleasure.

Her breasts would be small, high, with dusky pink nipples pebbling in the cool air. She was a tiny thing, he imagined her stomach would be flat, her waist small enough for him to bruise with his grip.

His grip tightened, and he began to pump up and down slowly.

He imagined she would be mostly shaved and trimmed, as was the fashion, leaving her most sacred place open to his gaze.

_Oh, Merlin, yes_.

It would be dripping for him, glistening and pink in the light. She'd be shy, of course, but Merlin how she wanted him. _That_, he knew for certain. She'd offer him a little smile, crawling over to him, her small fingers flying over his many buttons, pushing and pulling his clothes off until he was as naked as she was.

What would she do then? Would she take him in her mouth?

_Yes,_ he decided, _it was something to learn. She would never shy away from learning something completely._

She'd grasp the base of his cock with a warm hand, giving it an experimental squeeze, running her hands over him under his watchful gaze.

He squeezed himself just as he imagined she would do.

Her dainty pink tongue would dart out hesitantly to taste him, once, twice, before closing her lips over the head and sucking gently, looking up at him for approval.

"Deeper," he'd growl softly, grasping her head, gently thrusting into her hot mouth. He'd show her how to cup his heavy balls, how to roll them in her hands.

His other hand disappeared under the water, finding his sac.

He shuddered at the added sensation.

She'd find her rhythm, and god, how she'd look, flushed and naked, her lips wrapped around his cock.

He'd pull her up, stealing a violent kiss before pushing her gently on her back, running his hands up and down her legs, nestling himself between them.

She'd pull him to her, the minx, her heels digging into his back, her small mouth plundering his.

Taking himself in his hand, he would rub the tip up and down her wet slit, coating himself with her juices.

Would she guide him in? Would she want it slow? What would she like the most?

_No_, he corrected himself;_ this is not about what she wants. Not now._

He'd ram himself inside her, as deep as he could go, holding her down firmly.

His pace increased.

He imagined her breathy moans in his ear, her little sighs accenting every thrust.

He'd pull back, pounding her fiercely, watching her face contort in pleasure and pain, her breasts bouncing.

"I'm…I'm…" she'd cry, her mouth falling open, a strangled throaty moan escaping her as her orgasm would rip through her.

She'd clench around him, wet and tight, murmuring obscenities, rubbing her clit to draw out the pleasure.

He was close now.

He'd fuck her furiously now, their flesh slapping together, his balls drawing up close to his body.

Would she come a second time?

_Oh yes she would_.

Her second orgasm would tug at his cock, pulsing and clenching around him until he cried out, burying himself as deep as he could go, emptying himself inside her.

Snape groaned as he came, burying his cock in the water, thick jets of semen clouding around his thighs.

He clenched his jaw as he rode out his orgasm, his breathing heavy and harsh.

_He had to escape her_.

* * *

Hermione stared at her ceiling, tapping her fingers along to the lazy beat of the radio.

She and Ron were finished, almost as soon as they had begun.

She expected to be more upset about it. To be honest, it felt as if a weight had been lifted. The tears she had shed earlier had not been so much over Ron, but over the fact that things wouldn't be as they used to be at the Burrow.

_No more Christmases with the Weasleys_, she thought with a sigh, tracing patterns on her stomach idly. She heard Snape come up the stairs and cringed, he was obviously struggling to do so. She wondered if he had heard their argument. The slam of his door startled her, and her frown became deeper.

Always storming around.

Her mind began to wander back to what they had shared earlier. If someone had asked what the most significant part of her day had been, it wouldn't be that she and Ron had called a quits, but the fact that she had almost shagged her former professor against the bookshelves.  
She shivered in delight as she remembered his skilled tongue.

_I wonder what else he can do with it_ she thought, blushing, a giggle bubbling forth from her mouth. Hermione bit her lip, smiling. She heard water running in his bathroom.

He was taking a bath, which meant…

He would be naked.

Her mouth parted and her eyes glassed over as she recalled the hardness pressing against her, how wonderful it felt.

How wonderful _he_ felt.

_I wonder what he would be like_, she thought, as her fingers disappeared under her waistband.

Suddenly feeling self-conscious, she snatched her wand from the nightstand, flicking it at the lights.

"Nox," she murmured, setting it back down and proceeded to yank the covers over her.

_He would be forceful_, she decided, remembering how he had pinned her there, against the shelf.

Her fingers brushed a small strip of hair, the only hair she kept there. Hermione was a very clean, orderly person—almost to the point of compulsion—it was only natural she applied those same principles to her body.

_Oh shut it, you do it because it feels better that way_, she reminded herself.

Yes, he would be forceful. Would he be attentive? Or would he simply take his pleasure from her and be done with it?

_No_, she thought, knowing how prone he was to locking himself in his lab for hours, sometimes days in order to achieve the proper potion; _no doubt he'd be the same in bed_.

She remembered how thoroughly he had kissed her; no part of her mouth had remained unexplored, untouched by his skilled tongue.

_Oh, God, that tongue_

She could, she supposed, if she wanted to, barge into his room and demand that he take her. She smiled sheepishly, wrinkling her nose with mirth.

How absurd! No doubt he'd throw her out the second she got in.

…_But what if he didn't_

Hermione's smile faded, her mouth falling open in a silent "o" as she ran a finger up her slit.

She could see it now: his eyes would darken with desire (or rage, with him, they were almost too close for comfort). He'd cross the room in two steps, easily, and grasp the back of her neck, yanking her to him roughly, kissing her with brutal force. There would be, as it was with his personality, she suspected, gentleness to be found behind all his violence. He'd follow some of his rougher kisses with smaller, softer ones, as if to reassure her that she was safe with him. She decided he'd have his pajama pants on, his scarred, pale chest hot against her, searing through her thin shirt.

Hermione continued to stroke up and down her slit, her hand grasping her breast as she continued to imagine his hands on her.

She would pull off her shirt, and slide her pants down her legs; she knew she would be blushing furiously as she sat down on the bed.

She gasped, finally parting her folds, as she imagined him joining her on the bed, kissing her and grinding himself against her seeping center. His eyes held hers as he kissed his way down her chest, down her torso…

She clenched her sheets in her fist as she circled her clit, imagining his soft, greasy hair brushing the insides of her thighs, his tongue parting her, pressing against her. She pretended the pad of her finger was the point of his tongue, swirling and teasing around the little nub.

She was sweating now, her skin sticky under the covers, she wanted to move, to get dry, but she was halfway there.

As erotic as envisioning him in this act was, she had wanted him for so many weeks, she wanted him _inside_ her more and more everyday. Her fantasy shifted, and he was pressing at her entrance, sliding into her with ease.

_It won't be like that in real life_, her reason said bossily. She swatted the thought away.

For now, he was inside her, and she imagined how his face would look as she rubbed herself faster, grinding up against her fingers.

His jaw would go slack, his brows furrowed in concentration and pleasure. He would brace his weight on his elbows, grunting as he slammed into her.

She felt her body respond beautifully to the thought of him grunting and pumping away on top of her.

She was close now, so close.

How would he look when he came?

She pictured him as being beyond intense, holding her hips with bruising force as he thrust inside her as far as he could go, thrusting wildly and without rhythm, crying out and stilling inside her, coating her insides with hot, thick streams of ejaculate.

Hermione threw her head back, coming with a groan, her hips jerking uncontrollably, her center throbbing.

She stilled, her body relaxing into the mattress, the throbbing slowing down. Her mouth was a desert, and she swallowed thickly, throwing off her covers.

_This has to stop_, she thought sternly as she drank from her glass, _I can't keep going on like this every day_.

* * *

It wasn't long until after he owled his old colleague that she responded. He was to floo to Hogwarts (Kingsley had graciously arranged a special floo from Grimmauld Place). He donned his old teaching robes, and felt the stirrings of productivity again. Much as he loathed admitting it, it would feel good to teach again. He would feel useful once more. More importantly, he would no longer be in the presence of one Hermione Granger.

The Headmaster's office had changed but little, McGonnagall had left many of Dumbledore's various instruments exactly where he left them.

"Severus," she said warmly as he stepped out of the fireplace, brushing soot off his robes.

"Minerva," he said curtly as he crossed the room in long strides.

"Welcome back," she said formally, "please, take a seat."

Snape took the seat where he had spent many nights talking with Dumbledore, the queer feeling of deja-vu washing over him.

"I'm sorry, Severus," she said quietly as she poured them both a cup of tea, "for—"

He held up his hand.

"All is forgiven, Minerva," he said lowly, halting her apology for both their sakes. She nodded, offering him a small smile.

"Now, what is it I can do for you?" she asked, sitting in the great chair behind the desk, folding her hands primly on top of the desk.

"I wish to return to teaching," he said simply, taking a sip of his tea. McGonagall's eyebrows shot up into her hairline.

"I thought you hated teaching," she said, clearly surprised.

"I hate inactivity even more, it seems," he said, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"Of course you're welcome back," she said, a bit irate, "Horace will be relieved. Unless you're referring to the Defense post?"

Snape crossed his long legs, stirring his tea lazily.

"I was indeed referring to my post as Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor," he said silkily, "I feel I am well qualified."

McGonnagal snorted at his joke.

"We are in need of a professor, I've been searching high and low for a replacement for the Carrows," she huffed, "but I'd be more than happy to give you the position, you've more than earned it."

"Will Horace continue to serve as Head of House?" Snape asked smoothly.

"Not if you wish to step into that role, he'd give it to you gladly," she replied.

"I do."

"Thank Merlin," came an oily voice from one of the portraits.

"That will _do_, Phineas," McGonnagal snapped, before turning back to Snape, "what of your quarters?"

He waved his hand carelessly, "Whatever is available, I care not."

"I must say, Severus, I've never seen you this accommodating," Minerva chortled.

_That's because I've never been so desperate to leave a place_, he thought bitterly.

He smirked, but said nothing.

"Then it's settled," she said, rising from her chair, extending a hand to Snape.

He did the same, and they shook hands firmly.

"Until September first," he replied before striding towards the fireplace.

"You won't be the only one returning," she called out to his retreating form, "Hermione Granger's decided to return to complete her seventh year."

He stopped dead in his tracks.

_Damnation._


End file.
